Milford Sound

As much as I love photography, I realise there are some images too stunning to be captured on film, just as there are some places so phenomenal that nothing I write here will do them justice. Take the fjordland of New Zealand. It is everything trite you get on a postcard- misty jagged peaks, glaciers, pristine lakes, and waterfalls at every turn. The area is New Zealand at its most raw, and it is amazing. Having realised that my pictures and future words would only do the area an injustice, I sat on the bow of the ship and just watched as we sailed into the sound. Although the area is one of the rainiest in the world, getting an average of 3 metres of rain per year, we had nothing but clear blue skies. The captain said he hadn’t seen weather so nice in over a year. Just as we passed to the right of a spectacular glacier, a group of about 15 dolphins decided to join us. They came up alongside the boat, jumping up in the air and doing all kinds of strange flips and turns as the hopped out of the water. We all sat and stared in amazement. Even the captain said that never in his life had he seen something so….magically weird.

On Gambling

To my great surprise, my father has got semi addicted to the casinos on our ship. I find this incredible, as he is normally very tight with money- I mean, he was born in Glasgow after all, and a Scot and his cash are separated only with the greatest difficulty. At least so goes the stereotype. But something about the randomness of mindless gambling seems to entertain him. I cant understand it really. He gave me 5 dollars to play with on the slot machines, but to be honest, I was bored by the time I had spent 3. I find it hard to get excited by something that requires nothing but luck, especially as I am not particularly lucky. My father did slightly better. With his first 5 pounds, he won 44 dollars, and decided he could use that money to keep going, although he would not allow himself to invest more. While he played away, I watched the other players, which I found far more interesting than playing myself. Some of them were clearly in a zombie stage of addiction, with glazed eyes glued to the screens as their fingers mechanically pressed the same combination of buttons time after time. Others were filled with the excitement of the relatively new player who, like my father, has had a little bit of success and hopes for more. I am convinced the house will always win, which is part of the reason I don’t enjoy playing. But some even have theories about that. One elderly lady assures me it is all rigged from the start- you can only win big on the first two nights of the ship’s voyage. That way, everyone else on the ship will quickly hear the stories of those who did win, and become convinced that they too could win big….but they cant, as they winnings have been already dished out, and the next round is only in a different lifetime….

Dunedin

Dunedin claims to be the most Scottish city outside of Scotland. Actually, the name means “Edinburgh” in Gaelic. The funny thing about the Scots is that they seem to always choose the place abroad that most resembles home when looking to settle. I suppose this is normal for any emigrating group, but you would think human nature would encourage a bit more of a desire for progress. Thus, not surprisingly, it appears Dunedin has some of the worst weather in New Zealand. We arrived in the morning and the whole town was shrouded by fog, so you could barely make out the surrounding mountains. Everything else in the town is a bit of a replica of the motherland as well (lots of stone and Presbyterian churches). It was a bit eerie. My father seemed quite content, especially after he realised he could haggle in the antique shops, and we saw all of them in Dunedin as a consequence. Even I ended up buying myself a wood chest….how I will get it home is an entirely separate issue however. One of the major features of the town is its spectacular train station….although no passenger trains have passed by since 2001. There are weatherboard houses of varying size and hilltop views overlooking the harbour. J and j invited us to their house, so we could see (again) how “real Kiwis” live. I had to wonder if this was not a bit taking the piss, but it couldn’t have been- they couldn’t have known that every other private home we had seen had been equally amazing. So their house is on a hill, with a view over the harbour. It has 6 bedrooms and the same number of bathrooms. It is high Victorian, and has been beautifully restored. It is filled with (too many in my view) antiques they have spent decades collecting. And because j’s parents are ailing and struggle with the numerous staircases, it is currently on the market for 500,000 New Zealand dollars. You might be able to get a one bedroom for that price on the outskirts of London, but that would take some luck…which makes me wonder yet again, what the point is?

the guessing game

Travel allows for odd encounters, especially when there is dead time to fill: waiting in an airport or sailing across the Tasman Sea, you find yourself talking to people you wouldn’t ordinarily notice. Sometimes these random encounters are with locals, especially in countries (Chile comes to mind) where being foreign attracts curiosity. While other times, you end up talking to other foreigners. (I never met more Israelis than in India!) And for some reason, I am one of those people random strangers likes to talk to. I always have been and I have never understood why.
I also like observing people from afar, and then trying to establish if my presumptions were indeed correct. I think it is based on a weird game my mother, aunt and I used to play when I was little in cafes in Paris. We would stake out a café in an area likely to attract a mix of people and try to imagine their backgrounds. This was probably all invented to keep me still and quiet long enough for them to enjoy their coffee and cakes, but the habit somehow stuck with me. But I still make egregious errors in my assumptions. The other day I saw a man who looked like me image of the stereotypical American monster. Potbellied, dressed all in denim (with those horrid, huge white trainers they only sell in the US), and wearing a baseball cap in public. I couldn’t resist, I walked over and started a conversation. Sure enough, he was from Texas (no surprise there) but when I asked about (the now thankfully out of power) Bush, I got a surprise. “That bastard was the biggest embarrassment the state ever suffered.” A long speech on Bush’s (many) failures followed. I was a bit taken aback- I had got the location, but totally misjudged the man.
Other times, I am more accurate. Sitting down in the breakfast room, I looked over to see a fellow who immediately triggered a bell in my head indicating ‘Australian for sure, probably from the Gold Coast.’ As it turned out, I was spot on. When the fellow got up to leave (after telling us loudly about surfers’ paradise and the time he got caught coming out of the wrong bedroom, oops, end of that marriage), the rather quiet Kiwi who had been (literally) sitting in his shadow asked me why God had not been born in Australia. “Why?” I asked, as required. “because they couldn’t find three wise men or a virgin.” Ouch. I supposed even in this globalised age, stereotypes are still alive and well.
And then there is D. D exudes quiet confidence. When he speaks (quietly, never raising his voice), everyone stops to listen. Whenever a leader is needed to represent others, people just automatically look to him. When he sits down to gamble, he wins 1,000 dollars the first move, and quits. His suits are of the highest quality, his wife is immaculate (in her 70s) and even after several chats with them, I have no clue what he did when he was working. Looking at him, he could be any nationality, and although he is clearly an older gentleman, he could be 65 or 85, you really cant tell. Now there is my idol- a true man of mystery.

christchurch

The strange thing about New Zealand is that I find the smaller towns much nicer than the cities, which is quite strange as I normally detest any place with a population below the million mark. Christchurch is infinitely nicer and than Wellington, however, despite being smaller (and not the capital). It too has a truly stunning and enormous botanical garden, but its centre is more cute and pleasant. I am amazed by the fact that is seems every town, regardless of size, has a massive public garden. This is clearly something that is central to the kiwi way of life. Even so, the botanic garden in Christchurch was over the top. It is the third largest public garden in the world, apparently, after Hyde Park and Central Park. It was filled with incredible plants even my father (who actually knows about these things) could not identify. I climbed some of the trees that were so massive that my father couldn’t get the whole width of the trunk into a photograph. Later, after several hours in the gardens, we moved on to investigate the town, which was pleasant and user friendly. I am reaching the conclusion that the South Island is much prettier than the North, and that, contrary to the seeming logic of geography, it is warmer as well. I am not sure how this is possible, but so far the evidence indicates it is!

picton

I used to think that one had to always behave very properly and correctly in front of old people, to the point of hypocrisy. I suppose I thought that after some undefined age, people stopped being fun and having lives and turned into boring and conservative monsters. However, since I started travelling with older people I have understood how totally wrong I was. Take alcohol for example.
Old people can drink, and they have no inhibitions about when and where they choose to get totally plastered. They have no problems taking me off to a vineyard for wine testing at 10am and proceeding to drink excessively before lunch. “what the fuck do I care?” asked Suzanne (age 85) “I can get drunk, eat loads, and if I fall asleep, everyone will just think it is because I am old!” Suzanne is amazing. She qualified as a medical doctor at a time when few women were going to university at all, and has an incredibly sharp tongue. The other morning I asked her how she was doing and she answered “terrible, I am old and decrepit, how the fuck do you think I feel?” It is refreshing to get honest answers to routine questions.
But back to the vineyard, we went through all the steps of seeing how wine is made, and then moved on to the sampling. Four glasses later, they brought out huge quantities of food, so we could see how the wine went with different tastes, although my mouth had already lost all sensitivity to nuance. But I sat there and still tried to behave correctly. Suzanne through her glass in the air and smashed it against a wall. Another old man got up to dance. None of them gave a toss about what anyone thought. I suppose this is the privilege of being old.

wellington

As we sail, the nature around us is stunning. It seems in every direction, there are mountains partly covered by low-lying clouds, or mist rising mysteriously up from the incredibly clear water. It was the last piece of land of any significance to be inhabited by people, who arrived from Polynesia only 700 years ago. Until that point, the place was filled by just the plants and animals, with no natural predators anywhere on the island. The only mammals were bats. As a result, there are loads of weird birds here found only in New Zealand, and the place maintains an empty feel that seems to constantly remind one that until relatively recently, we weren’t here at all.

Thus not surprisingly, the most interesting part of Wellington is the Botanical gardens, which are truly stunning and enormous. Yet Wellington itself, like Auckland, offers little in the way of urban charm. Again, the architecture is a strange mix of glass boxes and older buildings. The natural backdrop is immense, but not enough has been done to integrate the urban planning with the setting. As capitals go, Wellington makes even Ottawa look positively cosmopolitan and sophisticated, it is a provincial (albeit pleasant) backwater. Yet again, the standard of living is high, and many are clearly content with their lot. We had tea next to a couple who confessed to have never travelled to the South Island a few hours away, and who didn’t find this strange (they had been to Melbourne though- twice!). In some ways New Zealand appears to represent what Britain once was, or what some claim it once was: a prosperous and somewhat puritanical country of polite if rather parochial people. People here have easy access to private property. The dream of having a detached home on owned land is within the reach of most, nutrition is good and everything everywhere is user friendly. I ask my father if this is what Britain was like in the 50s and he says in many ways yes, but that Britain was not so prosperous, it was after all the austerity period then, with rationing continuing well into the decade. Hardly a wonder so many left at that time to come here.

fartopolis

“I will jump off the bridge if you give me a coin,” a little Maori kid promises. The bridge is about as high as the one in Mostar, but the water is filled with Maori boys, so I presume they know what they are doing. I give him a NZ dollar, and he puts in his mouth, climbs over the bridge railing and jumps off, to the cheers of his mates.

We are in the area of Rotorua, which in addition to claiming the best weather in NZ, also has one of the highest Maori populations, with about 35% of the population claiming Maori origins and tribal rights….however apparently to do that you only need to demonstrate 1/32^nd Maori descendancy, so I am not sure exactly what all these numbers actually indicate. However, I did hear the (amazing) language spoken frequently about on the streets, and many of the people did appear to be plausibly of Maori origin. In any case, the town is undeniably anxious to show off this aspect of its heritage, as there are signs and tributes to Maori culture all over.

Rotorua is a resort town built on top of an active volcanic region, called fartopolis by some due to the small, and has thus been turned into a sort of natural theme park. Supposedly the Arawa tribe settled in the area in the 8^th century and believed the mysteriously bubbling ground to be somehow connected to the divine, which is understandable as the whole thing is seemingly to weird to have any other explanation.

We spent several hours walking around Whakarewarewa, where large clouds of sulphur smelling steam strangely just rise up from the ground, and Geysers erupt regularly. In some areas, there are piles of mud that appear to be moving about, and it seems like a mud monster could rise out of them at any minute. As a result, the Maori quickly established a system for cooking and bathing using the thermal heat, and they continue to do so to some degree today. I munched on corn which had been cooked in a pond and my dinner was pulled out of what appeared to be a hole in the ground. The White New Zealanders I meet have insisted (a bit, I thought, patronizingly) that the Maori are just happy-go-lucky people content with their lot and their traditions, and much was certainly made of those traditions at the haka we attended. However, I was never entirely sure how much was being put on for some cash and how much was rooted in actual reality. National statistics indicate Maoris make up more than there share of the prison population and the unemployed. The locals I questioned insisted this is because people come over visa-free from places like the Cook Islands and Fiji and pretend to be Maori, and that they are the ones that cause trouble. Wandering around town, I caught glimpses of hugely obese teenage Maori mothers, and kids wandering around without shoes, and wondered if things might be a bit more complicated.

napier

Of all the places we have visited thus far in New Zealand, Napier is by far the nicest. Looking at the map and statistics beforehand, it didn’t look too promising: a population of 55,000 and just a handful of streets. This proved, however, to be most misleading.

The city was probably a quiet and boring seaside town until it was completely destroyed by a 7.9 scale earthquake in February 1931, it what was to date New Zealand’s largest natural disaster. It was the height of the Great Depression, but the government pledged to rebuild the place, and workers poured in from all over the country in search of work as part of the reconstruction efforts. What is interesting about the story though is the way in which Napier was to be rebuilt. Architects and consultant were called in to create a vision of Modernism and the future. As a result, the entire city is built in a classic Art Deco style, and the city was turned into a stunning resort town. I spent hours wandering around gawking at the buildings. I sat down on the terrace of a restaurant and drank some wine while staring at the totally blue sea. I then wandered up to the residential parts on the hills, with their stunning views of the sea. I went to the Hawkes bay (gentlemens) club and took tea on the patio in the back, thinking that although I would not like to live here, it is certainly a nice place to visit.

the end of the line

We got up early on Monday morning to battle the supposed traffic jams of Auckland. Over the weekend we had heard endless stories from various locals about the horrors of traffic jams, especially those going over the bridge (called the “Nippon clippon” by locals, as the extension intended to fight the traffic was constructed in Japan). The waiter claimed it was bumper to bumper, but from our position in a café overlooking one of the main streets in the centre, I counted about one car every 20 seconds, in other words, one car in my line of vision at a time. There were indeed cars visible on the bridge, but at no moment did they ever come to a halt, or even have to slow down, due to the supposed traffic. My father and I remembered an occasion years ago, driving in northern Scotland from Inverness to Old Meldrum in Aberdeenshire. Family friends had warned that the traffic would be “dreadful” and I decided to count cars- we saw a total of five in the several hour drive. I suppose everything is relative when it comes to imagining traffic jams.

Having concluded we could manage the traffic after all, we headed for the Auckland Museum, which was surprisingly interesting. It combines, rather oddly, Military history, local wildlife and Maori traditions under one roof…but I suppose it is practical to show what you have in one go, even if it is a bit odd to have spitfires next to massive Maori canoes.

Auckland is an odd town though. Architecturally, it is rather ugly, although the natural setting could be spectacular. Everything is well organised and efficient, and the food is fresh and diverse. But I cant help feeling that the woman who checked me in at the counter in Heathrow was right when she said “New Zealand, huh? That is pretty much the end of the line.”

NZ

For some reason, I imagined the southern hemisphere would be hot in January. IT is meant to be summer, therefore, I assumed the weather would be better than in Britain, where it is meant to be winter. Such proved not to be the case. I arrived in Auckland to cold and rain, and it has been typically horrid and cold since. Basically the climate is a slightly milder version of England, with four seasons in one day, not spread out throughout the year as would be the case in a normal country. Like in Dublin, the weather here can change instantaneously- one minute it will be sunny, then it will start to pour, yet within minutes, the sun will be shining again. So every day begins with an assessment of what to wear, and every outfit has to involve as many layers as I can squeeze under my coat. This odd situation also makes sight seeing in the place a bit difficult, as you never know what you will be encountering until there, leaving a high possibility of getting everything wrong. The locals claim it rains nearly every day, and so far, this has indeed been the case.

But the country does have a few advantages over the UK: it is far cleaner in every sense. Walking about, you can feel with every breath that the air is far fresher than anywhere in Europe. Part of this is due to smart government legislation. If you want to construct something here, such as a shopping mall, you must ensure that at least 20% of the land stays green, by building a park in the middle, or something similar. The obvious result is that everything around seems to be green, and there seems to be a massive park in the middle of every neighbourhood, many of which are really well designed, and ALL of which are well maintained. Furthermore, I have walked all over the country’s largest city over the past several days looking for one piece of ANY sort of litter: a chocolate bar wrapper, a cigarette bud, an abandoned newspaper, a vomit puddle…..but I have found nothing. There is no litter here. Furthermore, although the populace certainly drink their share of local and international beer, if they puke it back up, they clearly do so somewhere other than in the streets, unlike in Britain.

Additionally, partly thanks to the clever government legislation, the living standard is in certain ways is far higher. All the flats appear well constructed, with massive balconies. The other night we went over to a couple’s house for dinner, and they took us around their neighbourhood to see how they and their friends live. They (and their friends) had nice detached houses with large gardens and covered patios (due to the rain) for their “barbies.” We had dinner in the living room with the massive doors open onto the beautiful garden, flooded by New Zealand’s incredibly fresh air. Such surroundings would only be available to the ultra rich in Britain, yet this couple were far from that, and assured us such people don’t really exist in New Zealand anyway.

on councils

 generally have low expectations when it comes to anything related to public administration in Britain. In the past three years, all my encounters with British officialdom have suggested gross mismanagement and exceptionally poor organisation. In no aspect of daily life here does this appear more true than when dealing with the local councils. Councils in the UK pick up your rubbish, clean the parks, and charge you something called council tax. This is a mysterious tax everyone pays on top of property tax etc. We are told it helps pay for the councils. Council tax is not cheap. My monthly rent is 600 pounds per month, my council tax (were I to pay) would be 150 pounds per month on top of that, in other words an additional 25% on top of my rent.

However, there are two categories of people who are exempt from paying council tax: unemployed people on benefits, and full time students.

I am still registered as a full time student, and therefore qualify for an exemption, as I have every year I have been in this country. So this October, at the start of the school year, I took in a letter from my university stating I was indeed still a student. However, a got a letter a month later claiming "PhDs are not really students as they do not attend classes." Ridiculous. So, I went back to my university where the officials composed a letter, citing home office legislation, explaining that actually PhD students are in fact students. I took that letter to the council in November. Fortunately I got a receipt acknowledging they had got it….in December, I got a summons to appear in court for "non-payment of council tax" a crime for which, the letter told me, I could have my property confiscated, or even go to prison. I panicked and went to my university, which assigned me a legal team. They called the council to ask why my earlier documents had not been approved. The reason? No one had bothered to look at them, supposedly due to a backlog of cases. Although my case was referred to supervisors at the council five times in December and early January, no one from the council ever looked at my documents. My university filed a claim of maladministration against the council. It went to court late last week, and the case lasted under 5 minutes. The legal representative for the council claimed he had no idea I had ever submitted evidence of being a student. Fortunately I had the documents and the receipt from the council on me. The magistrate asked the council rep why they had issued me a summons before looking at the file I had submitted to them. The council's rep said "um, I need to speak to my supervisor." Where upon the case was thrown out of court, and the council ordered to

1. Grant me the exemption

2. pay my court fees

3. pay all my legal fees

4. issue a full apology for wasting my time and the court's time as a result of their maladministration

 

Now this entire adventure cost the British tax payer several thousand pounds, and it all could have been avoided if the council had just done their job properly, and looked at the documents submitted to them in a timely manner. Clearly, however, this is asking too much. I posted a little message on a social networking site proclaiming my victory and I was astonished to find myself flooded within hours by messages from other acquaintances with similar stories. A colleague told me an incredible story about having her bin seized by the council, because she left it on the pavement on a Wednesday her first week after moving into the area. She also got a summons claiming she would have to appear in court and pay 500 pounds if she wanted her bin back. She also won her case, but had to wait 6 months before the council could find a replacement bin. Another person wrote of being fined for using the wrong coloured bin liner. Another guy said he had been on the dole for 2 months while between jobs, and when he eventually got a job, he was told by the council he would have to repay all the money they had given him while on the dole (he sent this letter on to his MP and the council quickly issued a full apology, citing "computer error" as the reason why he was ever issued such a ridiculous letter in the first place) the cases went on and on.

 

There is one park in my borough, and it is not clean. The rubbish is collected only twice a month (every other Wednesday). I am told the schools are overcrowded and under staffed. Why exactly do people pay council tax?

hasta la revolucion siempre!

Cuba and its revolution have always had a special place of respect in my family.

The country is amazing: the people are incredibly friendly, well-educated and well-informed. The climate is ideal. The hospitals (as I know from first hand experience) are excellent. Two things are clear:

1. Cuba is by far the most advanced, safe and developed Caribbean nation.
2. I would certainly rather be a poor person in Cuba than in Mexico, the United States, or…well, any country in the Americas with the exception of Canada. Nobody starves in Cuba, and no one is homeless. There are no large barrios without running water or electricity as there are in Mexico.

Yet it is a poor country. Although its emergency services are amazing, hurricanes often wipe out crops and housing, causing economic woes for the whole island. And as everyone knows, the place is paralysed by time, trapped somewhere back pursuing a 60s dream and ideal the rest of the world has lost interest in. Tariq Ali has argued that the existence of Cuba serves as a reproach to many one-time left wingers, who are now enjoying the bourgeois comforts of the successful careers they ditched their ideals for. This is probably true. I cant blame such types for…well moving on. Cuba needs to as well. Fidel, to his credit, had the brains to turn over power already to his brother. It would be great to see Raul acting independently of family control and opening the economy more. It is inevitable, it has to happen, and I would rather it happened on Raul's watch than enforced by some Miami-based onslaught.

But what the revolution has become should not undermine the memory of its origins and accomplishments.

New Year's day marked the 50^th anniversary of the Cuban Revolution. While the legacy might be mixed, the early glory of the time can be seen in Che, the excellent new film by Steven Soderbergh. Typically, the film itself turned into an example of why the revolution has lasted as long as it has: the United States policy towards it is, and has always been, idiotic. I experienced this personally on the Canadian-US border a decade ago when US border guards found a book (required reading for a course on Hispanic literature at my university!), and confiscated it as "contra-band." It was a 19^th century love story (Diario de Amor by Gertudis Gomez de Avellaneda), and if there was a single revolutionary sentiment in it, I certainly missed it. The policy has not changed: Soderbergh had to make his film abroad, with French and Spanish funding, due to the US's hysteria. When the director tried to have a one-off showing in Miami, the city's mayor, Matti Herrera Bower, got involved, claiming the viewing mustn't be allowed. So much for freedom of expression. The US embargo and the Helms- Burton act are immoral, illegal, and utterly useless. They have done nothing to promote change on the island, and clearly support the Castro brothers' ongoing argument that they are David facing down Goliath. Nine US presidents have given them this argument on a silver platter.

tbilisi/ bakuriani 2008

geneva 2008

utrecht 2008

warsaw 2008

rio 2008

london 2008

montevideo 2008

buenos aires 2008